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Does a mountain
feel its grandeur?
Does a lake 
know its depth?

The dead don't attend
our memorials
don't heed
our admiration

Tomorrow will never come
Next time will not exist

So, let us 
love and cherish 
each other

While we have 
the chance


Who am I?
I don't want to know

Even in front 
of the mirror,
I close my eyes;
Even in the quiet
room of my thoughts,
I hum a tune

A little of you,
a little gentler,
a little less brave

Am I the sun?
Rising in the hopeful east,
Setting in the lonely west

A little of you,
a little more open,
a little less righteous

Am I who I want to be?
And how would I know?

Even if you tell me,
I'll cover my ears

A little of you,
a little more collected,
a little more skeptical

Am I the moon?
Reflecting you,
No life of my own

Who am I?
I want you to know


Why did you read my poems?
They aren't for you
This is an invasion of privacy
Do you like them?
They are about you
What do they make you feel?
They are about life
Please don't tell anyone
They are about truth
and justice and love
I hope you liked them
and told all your friends
how talented I am
They're about sadness
I'm so embarrassed
Peoms end in lovers meeting
Did you send them
to your mother?
I'm really not talented
but one day I hope to be
I listened while you
called your sister,
why didn't you tell her?
I'm thinking of writing
to a publisher
I ran out of ideas
I wrote three more today
this is the depth of my soul,
bared for you
It really is a private notebook,
you know
I press my face against the door,
you talk about the weather,
your mother
Poems end in lovers meeting
It really is private,
an invasion of privacy


Oh truth! Oh truth!
You have to be real;
If there's no truth,
how can I know,
right from wrong?
If this pen is in my hand?
Without truth,
what can I know?

My sweet child,
my innocent child,
what is this truth you seek?
Can you point to it?
Can you sense it?

Don't be obtuse,
I can't point to the truth
but that doesn't make it
any less true
that this pen is in my hand,
this blanket is grey

And which part 
of the pen,
which strands of fabric,
hold that truth?

You infernal skeptic!
You dense man,
it just means
we both see it,
we both feel it,
over and over

It's just a word
that describes
the reliability
of experience


The foolish boy,
what did he expect?
He asked for patience,
I gave him
three energetic kids;
He asked for wisdom,
I gave him questions to answer;
He asked for courage,
I gave him difficult times

Did he expect
a bolt of courage
from above?
Wisdom slipped
into his mind
as he sleeps?

No, I designed him
with these muscles
from the start

All that's left
is to exercise them;
Shall I lift the weights for him?

What's next, will he sneeze
and pray for someone
to wipe his nose?